


Luminous Vitriol

by ChaoticMind (ChloeCasey), Chloe Casey (ChloeCasey)



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: 40’s bigotry (homophobia/transphobia/anti-semitism), Anthropology and archeology are perfectly good sciences thank you very much, BH confused by nerds, Black Hat Is Not A Nazi And He Never Will Be, Black Hat smokes cigars, Black Hat stalking Flug for business reasons, Blood and Gore, Crossdressing, Doomsdays, Eldritch Abominations, Flug Looks Damn Good In A Dress, Flug is an Einstein fangirl, Flug know how to use a gun, Gore & Violence, Gun fights, Homicidal Tendencies, M/M, Masochism/sadism, Mutually Based Obsession, Sacrificial Murder & Self-Harm, Sassy Flug(?), Sex is definitely gonna happen at one point don’t worry, Spelunking, TW:Nazis, Time jumps for lore purposes, Villains & Heroes, WW2, War and all the fucked up shit that comes with it, eldritch horror, tw: genocide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-09-02 02:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16777813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeCasey/pseuds/ChaoticMind, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeCasey/pseuds/Chloe%20Casey
Summary: At first, Flug thinks nothing of the man called Black Hat. The CEO of a company that sells flavored tobacco products shouldn't worry such a renowned archeological specialist as himself. He was busy enough unveiling ground-breaking artifacts that seemed to pronounce the planet as older than history once thought.Much, much older.He only becomes worried when that tobacco CEO keeps popping up at his unveilings. Over, and over, and over again.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "Heyyyy! It's almost December! You know what that means! It's *college finals season!* And what better way to celebrate that than a healthy dose of procrastination in the form of a new Villainous fanfic. Wanna see Flug being a nerd? Wanna see Black Hat being an utter glutton for pain and destruction but with just the right amount of elegance? Wanna see what happens when Flug goes splorin' some caves (and (mostly) dusty libraries)? Come on in! We've got it all!"

1̶̧̛͎̜͍͖͓͚͈̤̻̗̘̃̎̓͑͛͒͛̕0̵̨̗͚̱̰̤̣̫͚̙͖̮̤̗͚̝̀̆͋̿̽̀̌͌̋̓̊̚͘7̶͍̭̙̻͕̙̻̃̈̂̌9̸̡̟̟̱͗͊̆̒̽͂̓̈́͂̏̐͗̍̂̊̓͘-̷͚͙̹͓̠͓̣͈͇̈́̈́̒̿̀̇͆͑̿̐ͅT̷̬͔̫̜͇̺̯͕̼̬͕͔̑̓̓́̓̋̈́͆̕͘͝B̵̡͓͈̝̱̟̙̖̹͕̘͎̹̲͖̦̽̽̍͐͂̉̈̐̕͜͠D̵̰͖̩̲̼͉̖̮̟̭̙̼̝̽́͌

The man’s breath was visible amidst the bitter chill of the cold, moonlight night, the echoes of chittering animals and rustling of leafless trees filling the air with a restless cacophony that seemed to rattle in his very bones. He was staring down at the bowl that was beneath his shaking, pale hands, sitting in the middle of a patch of dried, lifeless grass, the surface smooth, flawless, with no smudge of dirt or cracks to be seen, the sparkling, shining white hue reminding the man of bone stripped free of it’s flesh. He tried to not focus on the weight that was placed on his shoulders, the sickening, torrential knot that was causing his stomach to turn into a stone from within his torso, or how his heart seemed to pound harder and harder within his chest. He tried to not think about how his cheeks were slick with tears, shed out of fear, out of the crushing, horrible realization that his death could very well come this very night. He wasn’t meant to do this, he wasn’t meant to come face to face with the dreaded monster, he was only a follower, a disciple, a common boy that was trying to survive in this bleak, dark world of hell and brimstone. His village was dying, people dropped like flies from disease or starvation, and the only way they had been able to cling to life at all in this desolate land was because of the tribute they payed to The Beast. But the disease had come and claimed his mentor just before the eve of the ritual. There was no one else. It had to be him, and if he failed, not only would he die, but so would everyone he ever loved.

The knife, glistening and glinting in the light of the moon, shone bright, the same hue of the bowl sitting so close to his knees, the handle clutched feebly between purple, shaking fingers. He knew he couldn’t wait any longer; the moon was at it’s highest point, The Beast was waiting to be summoned. He rose the blade high in the air, his other hand facing the bowl, palm facing downwards, straining to keep his eyes open so that he wouldn’t miss his target. He had to get every single drop into the bowl. Every single one.

His breath hitched, his hand swung down, and as his scream rang out through the dead, dry forest, the moon above him turned a ghastly red.

The wind picked up, his heart beating even faster, unwittingly pumping blood faster from his wound. The trees rustled, the birds cawed in unison, the clouds darkened and blotted out the stars. His body shook, and the feeling of weight on his shoulders became more physical, as if hands were pressing down and making him lean closer toward the ground. A whimper stole from his lips, but he forced himself to stay upright. One droplet. All it took was one droplet to touch the ground and The Beast would refuse to see him. Everything had to be perfect. Everything.

And then, as swiftly as it had started, it stopped. Every noise, every rustle - it stopped. The moon hung fat and rusty in the sky, but the trees stood still in their silent sentinel, the birds silenced in unison, the clouds slowed to a crawl and glowed a faint, foreboding silver. The pressure was still there, but constant, no longer building. The follower recalled his mentor's words, how this precise location was to be used with every like ritual. Something about the way the plants grew, and how the light shone. His hand steadily dribbled into the bowl. Not a single drop out of place.

**_Snap_**.

A strangled noise erupted from him and he took a practiced gulp of air to keep from bolting. His shoulders pulled up and his jaw hugged his chest as he recalled the last instructions. Always look down. He was just a peasant, a lowly follower and disciple, and The Beast would not take kindly to mortal eyes observing its body without permission. No one had ever even heard of such a person. If he were to guess, no one ever would.

The wind whipped at his hair and a sharp thunk sounded to his left. A broken and battered stick rolled and bounced within arm's length of the boy. A chittering sounded without any clear focal point, graduating to a broken hiss and clear _schlinking_ of something dragging across the ground. He could feel - no, not feel, _sense_ something moving and lurking behind him. A crunch, very much unlike a branch snapping, filled the air. Then silence.

His heart felt as if it was pounding against his teeth, as if it had leapt out of his chest and crawled through his throat and if that he dared to open his mouth it would escape. His bloodied, twitching hand was still hovering over the bowl, still had the knife buried down to the hilt against his flesh, and he didn’t dare to try and pull it out, for risk of spilling a drop. The bowl was now filled to the brim with dark, crimson fluid, his reflection showing nothing but his gaunt, pale, agonized face, his eyes wide with terror, blood-shot, puffy and red. After a few seconds of silence, he finally found his voice, struggling to not let his pain show through. “...Great Beast Of The World Eternal....I offer you this..tribute, in hopes that you answer my prayer...”

For a moment, nothing. Then a small, grating, repetitive noise just vaguely reminiscent of a laugh. A rhythmic clicking against the chilled ground neared him, moving toward his front, and his vision dimmed around the edges until all he could perceive werethe bowl and his hand. The pressure from before returned, weighing down on his back with every movement The Beast made. It was different, though, less intentional and more... natural. His head ached.

"And what makes you think I would do anything for you?"

At first, the man had simply expected the bowl to slide out from beneath his frail frame as if invisible hands were guiding it, or for the blood to miraculously disappear as if it was never there to begin with, or for his life to just suddenly end in an instant all because The Beast wanted to hear him scream. He hadn’t been expecting it to...to talk to him. He hadn’t been expecting it to talk at all.

He couldn’t help but sit there, blinking despite the pain that was currently making his skull throb like it was about to explode, his brow furrowing ever so slightly, still ridged, in his stance. “..M-My people have given you tribute for eons now, and we’ve asked for nothing more than to keep on living under your guidance in return. I...I’ve given you my own blood as an offering, just like the priest of old has in the past.”

"Hm." The noise was contemplative, but there was an undertone of scorn that made his skin prickle. A vague shifting tempted his eyes to leave the bowl, but he refused. His vision tightened by an inch. "And where is he? He always amused me, with all his incessant mumblings and pleas."

“..I...He died yesterday. The disease that is killing my people fell upon him when he was attempting to comfort those that were dying. I was his disciple, and I must..take his place.”

A stray wisp of wind ruffled his hair. The Beast said nothing, not even making another humming sound, but the dragging noise from earlier returned. Whatever it was circled him, as if trying to observe every angle of him with a hundred eyes at once, but he could still sense a heavier presence directly in front of him.

"Twist the knife."

The man’s breath hitched sharply, his blood running as cold as ice from the fear that sparked through his body as that command reached his ears. For a moment, he hesitated, shaking, realizing that even one drop or more could possibly enough to make the bowl spill. But his grip on the knife tightened not even a second later, and he restrained the urge to scream with pain as the blade began to turn from within his flesh, blood dribbling from the wound even faster, the skin splitting, awash with crimson. Tears sprang to his eyes once again as he finally twisted the knife all the way around to the point where it was facing the other direction, his other hand finally dropping to his side, panting from the pain, shoulders shaking, teeth gritted.

The Beast chortled, obviously pleased. "Quite the stubborn determination you have there, mortal. _And_ a high pain tolerance." Something cupped his jaw, something round and freezing cold and entirely foreign, and his vision darkened completely. His chin turned this way, then that, then upward, and was held there. "It's such a pity, isn't it?"

The moment he felt that coldness touch his chin, the man shuddered, his body seeming to slowly grow cold, frozen, numb, left to helplessly watch as his vision grows dark, as if The Beast has reached up into the heavens and snuffed out the moon’s light. He trembled as he felt his chin get tilted, turned, as if his head was some kind of pretty jewel to be admired from every angle, just before his face was turned upward, bearing his throat, and he restrained the urge to clench his fists out of fear. “..A...A pity? F-Forgive me, but I’m not sure I understand..”

"A pity the world will be dead by tomorrow." The words weren't rushed or slowed. They simply were. The follower's jaw was pulled further back. His neck throbbed. "It's not that you're late, but... all of you are so _boring_. You do the same thing every millennia, make the same infantile mistakes, only to blame each other and then ask _me_ for help instead of fixing your own problems. And then there's this ritual, which - gah, don't even get me started. So many of you pesky little things. If you want to kill someone so badly, just pick up a bloody knife and do it yourself. And make it _fun_ to watch if you're going to ask for _my_ guidance. Little brats."

The man for a moment said nothing, for he couldn’t think of anything to say within the grip of The Beast, his throat bared and his body left helpless to the monster’s whims. His mind raced a mile a minute, thoughts shaking and frantic with the imminent knowledge of the world being launched into an eternal Armageddon from which there could be no escape. His lips were dry as he opened them, his throat burning from his past screams as the wind brushed against the tender flesh, his voice a quiet whisper. “..I...I see....I-I’m sorry that you find me so boring...I do not wish to be.”

The appendage holding him tightened for a fraction of a second. "You mind stabbing yourself a few times before I leave, or do I have to do that myself too?"

“...Where do you wish for me to stab? I..can’t exactly see right now, M-My Lord.” He slowly lifts his free hand up again, awkwardly patting around his arm for a moment or two before gripping the knife, his teeth gritting and the muscles of his throat bulging as he yanks the knife out of his hand, hissing sharply, unable to avoid grumbling a few curses under his breath. “Ah, fuck..”

"Right." The appendage slid away, his vision slowly returning. "I'm surprised your brain isn't melted yet. Well, maybe, with how eager you are to kill yourself!" He cackled, the sounds vibrating the ground beneath them.

The man’s eyesimmediately shut tight when he realizes he was staring up at the open sky, tucking his head back in towards his chest, assuming the position he had before, not wanting to break the sacred rules for any reason, not even when Armageddon was coming the very next day. He tucks his bloody hand close to his skin, close to cradling it, shaking softly from fear, from pain, from anticipation of his death. “..Where...should I stab myself? I..I need to know to obey the order..”

The Beast huffs a short laugh. "Your leg, nitwit. I want to see you suffer, not immediately die."

The knife wobbles in his hand precariously, almost as if he’s about to drop it, and at least a second passes before it’s buried in the flesh of his leg, crimson already staining the cloth. His injured hand spasms with pain when the muscles reflexively try to clench, and he finds himself letting out a strangled scream just before his jaw clamps shut. He pulls out the blade, drops of blood splattering against the dirt, before the knife buries itself again in the opposite leg. “AHHH!”

"My, my, my.... _Both_ legs. An interesting choice." The Beast made a small humming noise. "Well, I have a schedule to attend to. Hope you have a pleasant doomsday."

The man shuddered and shook with the pain, the knife finally falling into the dirt, the tip of the blade sinking into the soft earth, flecks of crimson still staining his surface. His face was pale, his hair stuck to his forehead, and finally, finally, he lifted his head up, by the slightest of inches, and nodded. “..I hope you do as well...”

He could just make out, between the invading black and wooziness, a serrated smile of impossibly large, glowing fangs curving around an impressively round visage. The smirk curled further, seeming to split whatever kind of face The Beast harbored, before the darkness overtook him.

"Until next time."


	2. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, guys! Glad to show another chapter for your viewing pleasure! This is the beginning of the story and I'm already so excited to write more! Remember to write some comments, it would be most appreciated!
> 
> TW for cigars, and slight racism (someone basically calls Flug a Nazi because he's German).

**_October 30, 1773, Boston, Massachusetts_ **

_I remember that night. I always have. It’s remained ingrained in my mind like a stubborn thorn, digging deeper and deeper into my flesh no matter how many times I’ve tried to pull it out. The night I made the deal. The deal with a creature that very well could have been the devil itself._

_I was a young one at the time, little over 22, and the only job I had was skinning fish down by near the port for a measly coins, a job that often left me prey to the damn British soldiers, high and mighty and so damn proud with their polished boots and their muskets. Sometimes they would jeer at me, mockingly offer my coins, other times they would demand that I give them the fish that I was in the process of skinning, depriving me of any chance of pay for the day, which often made difference in wether I would go to sleep with a full belly or not. I grew restless, angry, as did many of the people that lived within the town; words began to be exchanged, whispers and mutters of plans, of techniques, of possible hiding spots in case their muskets began to seek blood. But we all knew that we were ill-equipped, unprepared for combat, easy prey if the British chose to fight back against our assault, and so, nothing changed._

_It had been a cold night, one that was full of a bitter chill no thanks to the winds that were coming off of the seaport. Many of the sailors were down in the taverns filling their bellies with the best drinks they could afford, while redcoats stalked the streets, harassing anyone they could see that looked like an easy target in order to get food and bedding to escape the cold. I had no such money to my name, no British authority to take advantage of and deprive the good folk of the town of their housing, and so I found myself in little more than an empty church, courtesy of the local priest, who was away to fetch me a warm drink and a meal. I was freezing, shaking in my boots amidst the pews, trying in vain to warm myself, all the while anger, bitter and vile, wormed it’s way into my chest._

_It was then that the church door creaked as it began to open, and I straightened up, turning around, expecting to see the priest._

_That was the first time I ever saw him. Pray to God it would be the last._

_He was well dressed, with a dark jacket gliding just above a pair of elegant dress shoes. A grey vest and blood red button up resided beneath and a top hat graced his head with a singular red ribbon, but that was the only color on the man. Everything else was an ashen, void-like black, right down to his very skin! He took one step inside the church and straightened his coat. Then he proceeded to walk down the pews, and the church candles flickered with every step he took. The door had swung shut a long time before, but a chill had seized the room that made my breath stutter out in clouds. Some ill part of my mind made me ask, "Who are you?" but by some miracle the man ignored me in favor of striding up to the very front of the church._

_I knew right away that this man was an inhuman, there was no other explanation; there was no clouds of air puffing from his lips, no sign of him blinking, and I swore that I could see the barest hint of claws from his hands. A part of me shook like a cornered fox, wanting to run away from the madness that was now blanketing the very room and turning my blood to ice, but an even bigger of me knew that this was the only place I could go. Running would be useless._

_I struggled to stand for a moment, and when I did, I could feel my legs shaking with every step I took. It’s only when I stood behind the monster of a man did I finally speak again, whispering the same words I had asked before. “Who are you?”_

_He made a strange humming noise, grating, like the growl of a bear with the impact of a revolver breaking the air. He didn't turn, but tapped a finger against the goblet of wine and stared at the stained glass window depicting our Savior Jesus Christ. "So this is who you worship these days."_

_I felt my breath freeze for a moment as the fear pulsed through my body, and for a moment, the idea that I was standing in the shadow of Satan himself flashed through my mind. I never wanted to run away more in my entire life, but something kept me grounded, rooted to the spot. My hands clutched the necklace I wore around my neck, holding the cross like a lifeline. “...A..A demon...A devil...”_

_"You humans were always so unoriginal. I honestly thought we were beyond that." I could almost imagine the roll of his eyes as he picked up the sacred drink and sipped from the goblet. He strolled to the chair reserved for the priest and sprawled himself across it. His eyes settled on me. A red-stained smirk filled his face. "Now, is there a reason you're still here?"_

_I stood there, absolutely still, frozen to the spot, the sight of the wine staining what could be described as giant green fangs filling up the focus of my vision, giving off a sickly green glow amongst the dim light the candles provided. This demon was truly a deadly one, one of carelessness in a building of God, as if it had no fear in the presence of The Lord. A part of me wanted to silence the words that were fluttering around in my mind, while another part felt hopelessly compelled to continue talking, no doubt a form of black magic tainting my soul. It took me a few moments to speak, my jaw gaping up and down like a fish before I finally managed to stutter out the words I wanted to say. “I..I’ve been given sanctuary by the priest of this church...It’s the only place I could go.”_

_"And why's that?" he asked, and he sounded like he already knew the answer but wanted me to say the words, like he knew exactly what had led me here, and suddenly all that anger from before, that boiling malice and vengeance I had been pushing away came right back to the forefront of my mind. And the demon before me merely smirked more and sipped from the cup and let out a content, rumbling hum._

_My fists tightened over the cross in my grasp until I felt the edges beginning to slice into the skin of my palms, and my voice shook with the rage that had been building up within my mind, within the minds of all the good people that dwelled within the city, as if I was a vessel for their wrath. “..Those redcoat British bastards steal my coins, my work, everything that’s ever been mine. It isn’t just me; they feed off the people like leeches, sapping them of their food and their homes while all they do is lounge about like vermin. The war they seek to fight in is long over, their service is no longer required, but their king refuses to send them home. Everyone wants them gone, gone or dead. But no sane man would want to be staring down the barrel of those damn muskets.”_

_"And what if you could have your own muskets?" He settled the goblet on the arm of his chair. "They've already turned their guns on you, with that 'massacre' that happened a few years back. It would only make sense for you all to have your own fun." I opened my mouth with some kind of retort, but he suddenly leaned forward with a serious look to his face. "You may not think you can, but if you do as I say, you will."_

_For a moment, I could think of nothing to say, nothing to do, like all of my thoughts had been torn from my mind and leaving behind nothing but ashes. I could feel vague trickles of warmth against my palm, and it took me a moment to realize it was bloody. The lights flickered almost ominously, and I found the fear creeping back in, but also with a mix of deep, malicious desire. “...How can you help us? What could a..a..thing like you possibly do?”_

_The demon scowled and rose to his full height, easily towering over me, eyes flaring red. "The more prominent question is what can you do to stop me from doing anything I set my mind to?" His face was mere inches from mine, those glowing fangs filling my entire vision. "Do you want to know the answer?"_

_It seemed as if all the warmth of my body was sapped from my flesh the moment he stepped closer to my person, and it felt as if an unseen hand had seized my throat, squeezing, strangling, my breath soft and strained, my voice nigh existent. I had angered the devil, and it’s only because of said devil’s mercy that I was still alive. I knew when to back down. “...H..How will you get us those muskets?”_

_In an instant, the devil had stepped back and had brought a hand to his chin, thoughtful instead of murderous. “Well, the first thing you have to do is get more guns into the country, and the only way of doing that without alerting the British Crown is to have the British Crown do it for you.” His smirk returned. “And I happen to hold interest in a certain tea company the Brits believe they control. I also happen to know the exact date their next cargo will land here, in the exact harbor outside this very church.”_

_I found nothing to say, at least for the moment, my body still quietly shaking from within my boots, despite the desire welling up at the idea of tarnishing the British cargo holds. I find myself speaking, and my voice is surprisingly steady, as if a weight has fallen off my shoulders. “..So, when the cargo arrives, we sneak aboard and steal their muskets and gunpowder..”_

_"No, you sneak aboard the tea ship, move it off the docks, and throw all their tea into the harbor," the demon corrected. "They'll throw a fit and send more guards, and then you can steal their munitions. Plus, morale bonus to the colonists. If everything happens as I predict, you'll have a full scale revolution on your hands."_

_My mind raced with ideas, with the thought of an impending revolution, ridding my home of the British Invasion, and I couldn’t help but have a smile form over my face. But the smile soon faded as a new thought entered my mind, one of suspicion and doubt. “...What could you possibly get out of telling me this? Out of helping me and the town? Who even are you?”_

_"Oh, I get everything." His smile had widened impossibly, and the remaining candles flickered a reddish color. "All you have to do is tell everyone else about the shipment, and everything else will fall into place. As for my name...." He extended his hand toward me, and I could more clearly see the pointed tips of his claws. "You can call me Black Hat.”_

••••

_**April 19, 1940, Boston, Massachusetts** _

At first, Flug thinks nothing of the man called Black Hat. The CEO of a company that sells flavored tobacco products shouldn't worry such a renowned archeological specialist as himself. He was busy enough unveiling ground-breaking artifacts that seemed to pronounce the planet as older than history once thought.

Much, much older.

He only becomes worried when that tobacco CEO keeps popping up at his unveilings. Over, and over, and over again.  
And now a strangely familiar description of said CEO was detailed in a document dated from the 18th century about events that happened on Mischief Night just months before the Boston Tea Party of the American Revolution. His eyes scanned over the description of the "demon" which had entered the church, soaking in as many details as possible, running possibilities that _maybe_ the writer remembered something wrong, _maybe_ he'd had too many drinks that night, but each excuse was tossed aside. He might be a foreigner, but he knew enough about the settings of specific, world-changing events to recall a church _was_ in fact fairly close to that harbor. Beyond that, one of his colleagues who worked specifically in Bostonian history recalled a series of killings that had occurred close to the time of the Tea Party which had suspiciously only involved holy men. But the thought that this inhuman being could be the same person as _Black Hat_....

He shook his head and took off his reading glasses. He needed more sleep, evidently. Or more coffee. Well, he was already falling down the route of conspiracy theories; maybe he needed less caffeine, not more.

He takes a moment to drag his hands down his face, letting out a loud sigh of exhaustion as he finally slouched in his seat, trying to ignore the feeling of the bags under his eyes. He took a moment to glance out the window of the plane, momentarily smiling as he begins to see the bustling city down below, as busy as ever, a far cry away from the humid jungles, dry deserts and frigid tundras he’s seen over the past few years. “Heh, shouldn’t be long now..”

"We are about to begin our descent, sir," a voice agreed. One of the flight attendants walked in, smiling as always. "Do you have any trash before we land?"

He took a moment to glance around the area of his seat, only to find nothing and shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m good.”

"Hope you've had a nice flight!" He ducked back into the main portion of the plane.

Flug sighed slightly, looking down at the paper held between his gloved hands. He probably shouldn't be looking at this on a plane full of other people when any amount of things could go wrong, but he had to make sure that he had read this properly before it went on display in the local museum. He carefully collected the pages and gently slid them into the protector before putting it inside his carry on. He watched as the plane’s point of view began to finally descend from the clouds and toward the ground, a slow, graceful glide that left Flug’s eyes glued to the window for every second that passed. He always really enjoyed planes, ever since he was a kid, sitting back on the grass and watching them cut across the sky like birds, and somehow actually being in one only heightened the respect and awe he had, not just for the machines themselves, but also the pilots. He always had the wondering possibility of himself becoming a pilot in his head, but he didn’t exactly want fate to get any smart ideas from his name, so he sadly stood clear, instead turning to other sights of interest, one of which brought him to this very country.

He had only just recently come to the States, and mostly for one giant, problematic, glaring reason in Europe. He was fairly young at the time, barely a fourth year student at university, when Hitler became Chancellor. He had been studying in Poland and quite literally had dropped everything he had been working on as soon as he heard. One flight back home, a serious talk with his Oma, and five luggage bags later, they were in the United States and going through the citizenship processes. He hadn't been lying when he'd told his grandmother that there were plenty of universities he could finish his studies at in the U.S., though it wasn't exactly the first thought on his mind.

It took a while for him to finally gain his doctorate, and even longer for him to finally gain a reputation as a respectable scientist in field that not many saw any respect in the first place. But once he began to uncover the artifacts, his reputation quickly began to flourish.

Those artifacts...They were archeological goldmines, and he still had to suppress the urge to shiver when he thought about them. They ranged from cursed goblets to gems of magma, crystalline eyeballs and the whispering skull of a long dead cyclops. All of them ancient, all of them dripping with inhuman magic, and all of them untraceable to _any_ culture in recorded Earth history, human or otherwise. They were artifacts of the bizarre, if only because no one could provide meaningful explanations for them. Most of them, sadly enough, weren't on display because there was seemingly nowhere to display them. There had been quite a few disputes as to which country would retain them, and more often than not they remained in the country he found them in. He doubted the United States liked that, but it seemed like the best option for everyone. Plus, his smaller discoveries that didn't make headline news appeared to satisfy his American colleagues. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the letter in his possession would help tide them over either.

He let his eyes stray to the carry on bag, only to pull them away, his fists momentarily clenching as he tried to force himself to not think about the supposed demon that the man called Jack Phillips had met that one faithful night. The same man that had lead the ambush that became the Boston Tea Party.

He had never met Black Hat personally, never talked to him outside of brief handshakes and cordial greetings, and so he never thought of the man as anything more than a dapper inhuman looking to make business. But the account was... uncanny in its familiarity. Hell, Phillips even wrote Black Hat's _name_ on the document! He'd have to have this tested to see if someone tampered with it. He could understand a strangely similar countenance, maybe even the similarities in how the demon discussed his business with the East India Company and how Black Hat sometimes discussed his tobacco industry, but his _name_? No. That was... too much. Maybe it's a family name? Maybe this is one of his ancestors? A shiver ran up his spine. Not only did that just _feel_ incredibly wrong, the idea of it being a real thing just felt unsettling. Another Black Hat....

He jolts slightly in his seat when the plane’s frame shook ever so slightly as the wheels hit the ground, snapping him out of his thoughts just in time to witness the machine slowly cruising along the ground before coming to a complete stop. He sighs softly before grabbing his carry on and tugging it close before unbuckling his seatbelt, groaning softly as he stretches his back, feeling the bones crackle and pop from the stagnation of the long flight. It was a short business to get off the plane and into the nearby building. He checked his watch and fidgeted with the strap of his luggage, leveling the satchel exactly parallel to the ground. The plane was a little early, as he had expected. Hopefully the rest of his team had made it to Boston already. He didn't want to be waiting around with such an interesting document in his possession. It’s only when he finally starts to walk into the main lobby does he hear a familiar voice calling his name, and when he turns, he can’t help but smile upon seeing the man waddling towards him, sticking out his hand for a shake, slightly relieved that he had met him so soon. “Don’t tell me you’ve been waiting for me the entire time now, Roger.”

"Oh, well, why wouldn't I?" The man beamed. "It's always nice to have some time to do nothing, and the people around here really do need a bit of cheer, if you ask me. Now, come, come." Roger put a hand on his back and began steering him through the crowd. "Helen's just come in an hour ago. She's dying to see the papers. You didn't seem to want to talk much on the phone."

“Heheh, it’s not that I didn’t want to, it’s just that I know when certain topics have the capability of me getting a bullet to the back of the head. Archaeology tends to make that very clear.”

"You have come into a few close scraps," Roger muttered. "But let's get something to eat and head out of here. The museum's only a few blocks away, and I'm sure you'd like to put your things down for some time."

"Some food would definitely do you some good then. Ah, there she is. Helen!" Roger waved wildly, hurrying ahead to a woman sitting with a bored expression at a lone table. "I found him."

The sound of a thousand little snakes hissing is heard as Helen’s hair rises up from it’s relatively pacified state, it’s eyes glaring and their mouths open wide, as if preparing to lunge and bite. Helen’s face however is blank by comparison as she lifts her head up from her hand and makes a show of yawning, even as she pushes out of her chair to stand up. “It’s about time you landed, Dr. Flug; the board is waiting for you and your latest findings, and we both know they don’t have much patience.”

"Ah, right." He fiddled with one of the buttons on his jacket. "This was the earliest flight, though. How have you been? I hope you didn't have to wait long."

“..It’s been a lot more dull without you around. And irritating on my end.” Her hair hisses even harder, twisting like wriggling vines until she lifts up a hand and snaps her fingers briskly, at least three times, and the snakes settle back down. She adjusted the glasses on her face, the lenses perfectly opaque. “...How are you, Doctor Flug?”

"I - I, uh-" Flug glanced between her snakes and eyes for a moment. "A little, uh, confused, I suppose. There might be, um, something we need to have dated on the document. Or maybe not, I'm not entirely sure."

She raises a brow, folding her arms as she finally walks closer to the two. “And why is that?”

"I'm just - uncertain to the validity of its contents," he says quickly. "I mean, by all appearances, it's real, but I rarely deal with written documents such as these. Most are quite a bit... older."

Her face remains stoic, though her hair wriggles, some of the heads glancing at each other suspiciously before they settled back down. She then shrugs softly, clearly not having much energy to argue. “Very well. Shall we-“ She glances next to Flug only to blink when she sees Roger is gone from where he previously stood. She looks around, her hair lifting up to swivel and scan the area, before she sighs, a hand lifting up to pinch her brow. “Dammit, Roger, again?”

"Where'd he-?" Flug follows the direction her eyes had been searching in, craning his neck over the bustling airport customers and trying to catch sight of that pressed shirt and suspenders. His sight was taken by a crowd forming some ways off, near the entryway of the building. An entire assortment of people seemed to vying for the front of the crowd, a few even clutching wads of bills high above their heads as bartering tools. "Has that been there the entire time?"

“Yes, unfortunately so. The crowds were too busy for me to get a look at what it was, but whatever it is, it seems to be quite popular. No doubt Roger got hungry or something to that effect and wandered over to throw away his money.” She sighs, looking a touch irritated. “Best go over there and find him.”

"Of course. Are you coming or do you want to wait? You look a little bit, erm, more tired than usual."

“..I’ve been waiting for at least two weeks for you to get back. I can wait a couple more minutes.” She goes to sit back down without another word.

Flug holds back a wince and heads over to the gaggle of people. Helen was always one of the last people to see his works, mostly because she had a better grasp on the intricacies of most cultures and could properly ascertain where certain discoveries should go both in a museum and between countries. She also tended to be the first person to prep him before each of his outings, since, again, she could give him a more in depth and accurate understanding of the customs he would come into contact with. That usually meant they had long stretches of time between each face-to-face encounter.

He half-stutters in his steps as someone bumps his side bag and sends it arrhythmically thumping against his leg. Clutching the strap and settling the bag, he reaches the edge of the crowd and peers between heads to search for that stout, mustached man. He doesn’t see the familiar face in the concentrated mass, though he does notice two things almost immediately. The first thing he noticed was the distinct scent of smoke, dense, thick, a sweltering miasma that momentarily left him feeling slightly dizzy. Second, was the fact that at the very front of the crowd, the very edge of a black top hat was seen.

He coughs, both from the polluting smoke and the alarmingly fresh description of a particular "demon's" dress. And the alarmingly similar resemblance to a particular CEO's only apparent wardrobe options. What is a cigar salesman doing at an airport - no, _the_ airport Flug had traveled to?

He could just barely make out the figure of the hat, slowly inching it’s way off to the side, away from the crowd of people eager for a flavored smoke. For a moment every few seconds, the hat would disappear amongst the shifting faces of the crowd, only to reappear a few spaces ahead, until finally the face of Roger, just in the corner of his vision could be seen. He was chuckling and conversing to someone, a cigar lit and currently clutched betwixt his fingers, pausing every moment or so to take a puff. Right, Roger. Flug waves a hand through a cloud of smoke and rounds the people between himself and his colleague. He'd have to look into why Black Hat decided to set up shop _here_ of all places when he finally had a moment to worry about something other than his friend's capricious nature. A few people almost step on his shoes and yet another person practically hip-checks him, but he finally makes it to where Roger was lounging.

"Roger!" Flug steps free of the last few desperate customers. "Roger, please don't run off like that. You _know_ what happened last time-"

And there he was, in all of his glory. His outfit had clearly undergone some changes from it’s older state in the Revolution, but there he was. The man who only went by one name, and one name only. Black Hat. He was standing next to Roger, a cane in one hand, a cigar in the other, already lit and almost down to the nub, wafting with a stream of smoke thick, dense, and almost as black as his very skin. His teeth were visible, just barely, only a hint of green fangs appearing from beneath his lips, which curled into a polite, charming grin as his head turns to look Flug in the eye. His voice was gravelly, which wasn’t surprising given his line of work, ringing out through the air like a church bell as he rose his cane in greeting. “Ah, Doctor Flug, I presume? So sorry if I caused any trouble, your friend here was just in the middle of trying out one of my new products.”

"Ah, well." His hand reflexively curls around his bag's strap, eyes locking onto Black Hat's even as the intensity of them threatened to turn his legs to jelly. Something about Black Hat always seemed _off_ , as if his very presence could manipulate the environment around him. Not that a specific document buried in his luggage practically corraborated every single thing about that theory. Hypothesis. He hadn't tested it yet. Hypothesis. "Seems a lot of people are trying your products. Or want to."

The man’s grin only widens, becoming a bit more mirthful as he lets out a hearty chuckle, stepping forward to extend a hand, his cane clacking on the tiles like the crack of a whip. “Well, that’s just the perks of a being a good salesman, I suppose. Would you like to try our latest flavor, Dr. Flug?” He puts a hand to his mouth as if he was telling a secret, though he wasn’t trying to be quiet in the least. “I’m afraid your good friend over there hasn’t quite gotten what it is yet.”

Roger merely furrows his brow, taking another puff as if to prove a point, clearly concentrating judging by the way his eyes glinted. “Hrmmm...I’m going to say....French toast?”

“Close, but no cigar, my good man.”

“Drat.”

Flug almost lets out a snort at the pun, but tries to pass it off as a cough when smoke escapes Roger's mouth. "I, um, I don't, erm, smoke. Sorry, er, Mister Black Hat. But I appreciate the offer!" He inwardly cringes at the nervous chuckle that follows.

Black Hat’s grin doesn’t change a bit, taking one last drag out of the butt of his cigar before tossing it to the floor and grinding it to ash with the heel of his shoe. “If you’re worried about price, you shan’t worry, it’s completely free of charge. Consider it a greeting gift, seeing as you’ve presumably gotten back from yet another trip, yes?” He reaches into the inner pockets of his coat to retrieve a polished wooden case with a symbol etched into the lid, depicting a black top hat with a red stripe. He flips it open and retrieves an unlit cigar, holding it out for the other man to take. “Please, I insist.”

His eyes linger for a moment on the logo, mind berating him about how many times those eerily similar colors had been seen on reassembled pottery, cave paintings, and unearthed coffins from impossibly distant times. The sharp flick of the lid makes him jump, scrambling for a moment at the offered cigar, and uncertainly takes the... "gift." He cleared his throat. "Yes, um, I just got back from Oregon, actually. Finally had an in-state m-meeting."

Black Hat’s grin immediately grows as soon as the cigar is taken from his hand, snapping the lid shut and tucking the case back into his coat. “Ooh, really now? That sounds positively fascinating. What was the purpose of the meeting, Doctor Flug? Was it a new lead on one of your old findings? The Eye Of Blood? The Skull of Whispers? Oh, what about The Tomb Of Armageddon? That one is my favorite, lots of mystery with barely any answers to be seen.”

"Oh, uh, this was - this was just about a p-paper, actually." He brings the cigar to his lips, but hesitates. "I didn't know you were - I didn't think you'd be so interested in my line of work, if I were being honest. Cigars have little to do with ancient artifacts." The product in question finally made it to his mouth, though it still remained unlit.

Black Hat merely responded with a hearty chuckle, his grin only widening until his teeth were definitely shown, glinting green in the sharp light of the airport overhead. “What, a man can’t have his interests? Business in tobacco may be my way of life but it certainly isn’t all my life is.” His eyes flick down to the cigar in Flug’s lips, and recognition momentarily flits over his expression. “Oh, please, allow me.” He lifts up his free hand to the end of the paper wrapping, clad in what appeared to be a leather glove, and with a snap of his fingers, an ember of flame appeared at the tip of his index, lighting the end of the cigar and causing it to begin to burn.

Flug blinks twice at the show before murmuring, "With your gloves on. Interesting." He takes a drag from the cigar, seemingly practiced but really only in a conglomeration of times he had seen clients and acquaintances smoke. The fumes tickle his throat, but seem to curl over his tastebuds with a wash of fruity, sweet, cake-like flavor. Almost like... almost like- He chokes, coughing the smoke out of his lungs as he half-turned away from the two men. "That's - that's-" Another cough shook his frame. "Blueberry pancakes."

Black Hat’s grin merely widens, hooking his cane around his wrist in order to start clapping, a soft applause that was distinct but only lasted a couple seconds. “Bravo, Doctor Flug, bravo indeed! You got it right on your first puff! I’m impressed!”

Roger huffs in what seems like irritation as he finally stomps out his own cigar. “Oh, fiddlesticks! I knew it was something to do with breakfast! It tasted so familiar!”

Yeah, familiar. Flug had practically _only_ eaten blueberry pancakes back overseas. And whenever he was with Oma. She always loved making breakfast, and she knew his favorite food was... was.... He coughs once more and musters a grin. "It's, uh, really well - well done, Mister Black Hat. Very - sweet. Not what you'd expect from a cigar."

The man chuckles and nods, the flame on his finger snuffing itself out as he closes his hand. “Well, I’d figure I’d show some good will towards those who are off fighting in the war. Need to give those poor men some semblance of home, and what better way to do that than with breakfast? French toast, eggs and bacon, oranges, cinnamon and sugar, and, our latest product, blueberry pancakes.”

Roger finally walks up to the two, chortling, his expression being that of a jolly grin. “Well, I’d say it’s already a rousing success, Mister Black Hat. Good thinking on your part.”

“Why thank you, Mister Fletcher.” He tips his hat to the man, and for a second, it almost seemed as if there was another hat underneath the brim.

Flug's eyes narrow for but a moment before he clears his face. "Well, we should probably get going. We have to see a local curator about the documents I've found. I'd hate to keep them waiting."

Roger’s eyes widen, and he rubs the back of his head. “Oh dear, I almost completely forgot. So sorry, Flug, I didn’t mean to get so sidetracked.”

Black Hat blinks, his grin momentarily fading, but then springing right back, his hands clasping together around the handle of his cane. “Oh, analyzing the new finding, are we? Dr Flug, would it be alright with you if I tagged along? I would _love_ to see the latest of your discoveries.”

"O-oh, uhh, well." His thumb nervously flicks the butt of the cigar, sending ashes spiraling toward his shoes. He cringes at the carelessness. "I - I don't know. You have - you have all your, um, cigar business to attend to. I'd hate to take you away to just see a dusty letter or two." _Especially if the letter has intimate information regarding you, and you have the ability to instantly light said letter on fire as soon as you come into contact with it._

“Oh, I’m not the one running the stand down here, I have my employees covering it. I’m just here to promote the latest product, though I have to say I think it doesn’t need my help.” Black Hat takes a moment to glance at the crowd behind him, smirking softly, before glancing back at Flug, his grin now a lot more lively. “Besides, I’ve been waiting for you to uncover something new for your research, and I would just hate to miss out on this opportunity.”

"Ah. Well." He glances desperately at Roger, who just gives him a thumbs up, and turns back to Black Hat with a small grin and a shrug. "Why not?" Goddammit it, why was he doing this? The letter was pretty explicitly _about Black Hat._ Black Hat _just so happened_ to be working in the same airport Flug landed in. Now he wanted in on seeing the letter? This was too much. This couldn't have been a coincidence. There were too many.

The man’s grin only grows wider, his teeth practically glowing in the light of the airport as he gives off a jubilant chuckle, setting the end of his cane back on the floor with a clack. “Excellent! Thank you, Doctor Flug, I assure you I’ll cause no trouble at all. Is it just you two or is there someone else you’re meeting with?”

_Why does it sound like he already knows the answer?_

"Helen! Right, I forgot about Helen." Roger slaps a hand to his forehead and groans. "I will never understand how I got a PhD with a memory like mine."

"You have nigh eidetic memory when it comes to things you enjoy." The response was automatic, thanks to the number of times Flug had explained this. "She's waiting by the table."

“Wonderful. Please, Doctor Flug, feel free to lead the way.” Black Hat tips his hat again, his grin a bit more subdued but still bright and charming.

"Right." He turns and walks back where he had come from. He could almost feel Black Hat's eyes pinned on the back of his neck, and he couldn't help but be reminded of how shark-like his teeth looked. He was tempted to slow down and walk beside him, but decided against it. He scans the tables for his remaining colleague before finally spotting her head of snakes and hurrying over to her. "Helen! Helen, um, we have a guest coming with us today."

Helen’s head swivels to face the three, and she instantly freezes, going still, while her snakes suddenly hiss all in unison, lowly, almost silently, their teeth bared. Her voice is quiet, almost stoic when she speaks. “...Mister Black Hat, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Indeed I am, Miss Helen. Good day.” Again, Black Hat tips his hat, flashing a toothy grin.

Flug bounces on this tips of his toes for a moment, cigar still held between two fingers and thumb nervously fidgeting with it. "The museum's only a few blocks away, right, Roger?"

“Oh, yes, I believe so. Shall we set off?”

“Right away.”

Helen’s head swivels to Flug, staring for a moment beneath the opaque lenses of her glasses before standing up and walking toward the nearest exit without a single word. Black Hat watches for a moment before walking up next to Flug, keeping pace with him as the group began to move, his cane clicking on the tile floor with loud snaps. Flug stares ahead of himself. He can't help but tap _one, two, three_ against his satchel's strap in the rhythm of the daunting clacks, and he's tempted to bring the cigar to his lips again, if only to have something to do. But he doesn't, because it's bad enough that he's smoking _now_ , so close to the artifact and so close to physically handling the artifact. Not to mention the flavor, which - _yes_ , he is definitely going to make a quick phone call after this. His mind was messing with him, what with the letter and Black Hat's surprise appearance. He knew he was overthinking this. But the familiarity.....

“You know, Doctor Flug, I’ve read some of your books in my spare time. I think the latest one I’ve read was the one called ‘The Earth’s Paradox’. Fascinating one that one was. Why exactly did you call it that?” Black Hat’s head turned to glance at him, his grin much more calm, pleasant even.

"I, erm." He had to work for a moment to bring himself to the present. "Well, scientifically the planet is said to be approximately three to four billion years old, maybe even more than that. We know that from a variety of radiometric dating techniques determined by a variety of scientists. But when those same techniques have been applied to some of the artifacts I've uncovered, it, well, the figures are rather-" He gestures vaguely. "It's impossible for the planet to be younger than an artificial tool."

“Ah, yes, your wonderful hypothesis about the Earth, very clever, I must admit. How did you put that together, exactly?”

"Well, I suppose it just makes sense. There's a lot we don't know about the people around us, so I figured we don't know much about the world we live in."

“Hmm, I see. I hope you at least put some more rational thought into it. Most of the books I read on those kinds of things are just rubbish, honestly.” He scoffs, his eye rolling in indignation. “To think that there are some simpletons out there who believe that magic somehow caused the creation of the universe.”

"Well, of course there's more thought to it than that." Flug frowns at him. "With all the different theories, and the sentiment the scientific community puts toward each, I can't simply cater to one or the other. In all honesty, it's just as likely they all are right or all are wrong. I mean, it's entirely plausible that latent magic and environmental factors affect pregnancies, and relationships between inhumans and humans are _going_ to have mixed outcomes. And then, of course, there's evolution, which not only relates to varying kinds of inhumans, but also, possibly, to thoughts on magic literally growing into a sentient being. No one knows _exactly_ what magic _is_ , so it's impossible to rule out the possibility that it can grow and become something more than just an energy. Just like how speculation on the beginning of life is just that - speculation." He lets out a huff, eyes trained on the sky. "And there's aliens, and I just... I mean, I'm for it. I don't necessarily doubt it. But it just feels like a cop out."

Black Hat stares for a moment, as if taken off guard, his grin having disappeared completely, his brow raised. He then grows back his smile, tipping his hat once more. “My apologies, dear doctor. I’m afraid the ways of science isn’t exactly my strong suit. I meant to cause no disrespect.”

He blinks and looks back at him, coloring slightly as he realizes his rant. "Er, no, sorry, I just - erm-" He clears his throat. "I'm used to talking to people who are familiar with my field of study. I sometimes forget that, um, not everyone is familiar with the theories. And I know that my outlook on them is a little more... left field than most."

Black Hat chuckles, his free hand lifting up to lightly pat one of Flug’s shoulders. “No need to apologize, Dr. Flug. It’s my fault for going around chattering about topics that I myself am not experienced with. Books can only convey so much.”

"Ah, of course." He rubs the back of his neck. "At least you seem to be a bit more interested in listening than debating, though."

“I assume most other conversations involving science end poorly in that regard?”

"I suppose so, yes."

"I don't see how Flug can handle it," Roger says from up ahead. "We're all more historians than scientists, from what I can tell-"

"Anthropology is a science," Helen mutters.

"-but they all just immediately lambaste us if any part of our thinking faults theirs! All the times they've brought physics and geology and chemistry into the discussion, when all they really have to look at are the dates and how the facts line up." He shrugs. "Reasons Flug usually handles the big displays, I guess."

“I see. I’ve been to a few of those big presentations in the past. They’re quite the spectacle, always drawing a big crowd.” Black Hat’s smile fades as his expression turns more thoughtful. “I don’t believe I’ve seen much of you two around those displays though. Are you new colleagues?”

"Not necessarily." A few of Helen's snakes peer back at him. "We've known him for quite a few years, helped him with narrowing down his list of possible locations. Roger was actually an intern with him before switching majors."

The man grins apologetically. "I wasn't quite aware of how intense some sites could be."

“Hmm...I see.” Black Hat’s face looks a touch contemplative, saying nothing for a moment before simply pulling another cigar out of his case and placing it between his teeth, lighting it with a lick of flame from his index, not even snapping it this time.

"And," Roger continues, "working at a desk with documents already under protective case tends to be safer than roaming through abandoned mines and structurally questionable temples."

Flug puts a hand to his face. "I told the university to not give me interns."

That manages to get a chuckle out of Black Hat, and he takes a puff of his cigar, blowing the smoke into the air. “How fascinating.” He blinks, his eye narrowing as he attempts to peer into the distance. “How far is the museum exactly? I think I see it.”

"Yes, it's just up ahead!" Roger strides forward more swiftly. "The Bostonian Revolutionary Museum. I've been here plenty of times. The curator is absolutely lovely. I don't think he'll appreciate smoking in the reading rooms, though."

“Oh, of course. One moment.” The cigar was barely even lit when Black Hat puts it to his lips again, and with one deep pull, the paper is nigh instantly burned down to the bud, leaving behind a thick layer of ash that falls to the ground. He flicks the bud away, tips his head back slightly, and blows out the avalanche of smoke, leaving it to float and dissolve in the air.

Flug blinks at him, and a few of Helen's snakes stare oddly at the smoke. Roger pulls the museum door open and grins widely at the businessman. "Very impressive, Mister Black Hat!"

The man merely chuckles and tips his hat. “What can I say? Strong lungs, ironically.”

Roger chortles at that, his lips stretched wide in a big jovial smile. “Very admirable for a man of your caliber. Right this way, everyone! I’m sure they’re waiting for us as we speak!”

The man steadily begins to lead them down the polished wooden hallways, occasionally needing to pause in order to let groups of visitors pass by. The walls were covered from top to bottom in Revolutionary attractions, from blood-soaked uniforms to replicas of muskets and bayonets, paintings of deadly battles and wax figurines of important figures, each one of them all featured in their own unique hallways, each one of them seeming to be filled to the brim with people. One hallway contained nothing more than the paperwork, the documents that were salvaged from those times, brown and stained, wrinkled on the edges, preserved behind giant panels of glass. At the end of said hall was a group of men lingering around a bright white door, all of them seeming to perk up at the sight of Roger and the group, though the look visibly soured upon seeing Black Hat. One of them crossed their arms, raising a brow. “..Dr Flug, who is this man with you?”

"This is - this is Mister Black Hat," he stammers. "He wanted to see how we do business, and I, um, I didn't think it would be much of a problem."

“Hmm....Very well. Make sure he doesn’t break anything.” The man seems to glare at Flug for a moment before opening the door, the group filing in, some casting looks at Black Hat over their shoulder.

The man looks nonplussed at the looks he was receiving, merely closer to Flug to mutter softly under his breath. “Not the friendliest of co-workers, I see.”

Flug glances at him from the side of his eye. "Like I've said, a lot of my work comes out of left field." He straightens his clothes and follows the group inside. Helen follows a moment behind him, and Roger offers a small shrug in apology.  
Helen stares at Black Hat for a moment or two, her heads hissing nigh silently, before she walks into the room after them. Black Hat takes a moment to adjust his hat and monocle before following suit, closing the door behind him.

Flug is already opening his suitcase to retrieve the document, and his other colleagues surround the table in various states of annoyance and disinterest. The archaeologist withdraws a small case and sets it on the table, collecting two gloves and donning them before opening the case. The document lays under a plastic shield, which he carefully removes and places off to the side. Helen folds her arms, standing relatively off to the side, her neck stretched in an effort to catch a glimpse of the document, hair deathly quiet, all of the heads slithering in the air, poised to get a better vantage point. Roger was closer to the table, deathly quiet, though he was visibly bouncing with excitement. Flug felt a brush against his left elbow, and when he looked up, Black Hat was right there, his grin gone, and with it, a look of intense curiosity, not saying a word, so deathly silent that it was like he wasn’t even in the room.

He takes a small breath and moves the document onto the bare table. He turns it toward the others - a small courtesy between historians and scientist. "The letter was given to me by an elderly gentleman by the name of Robert Stone living in Salem, Oregon. He said his family had passed this down from generation to generation, and he had stumbled upon it while cleaning up around the house. He got into contact with a historian when he noticed the date, October Thirtieth, Seventeen-Seventy-Three, who then notified me as a specialist in abnormalities in common time. The material has already been confirmed as genuine parchment, which was the customary material used during the time period. The date and content of the letter appear to have connections to the Boston Tea Party, which is spoken of in a certain level of detail only insider revolutionaries held at the time. Feel free to read it, but, as always, be careful to touch it as little as possible. Oils will damage the letter."

The group of scientists immediately sidle closer to read it, their eyes scanning, reading the smudged cursive handwriting, Roger looking as if he was holding his breath. Helen was approaching the table, leaning against the edge in an effort to gain a peek. Black Hat just stood where he was, unmoving, unchanging. Flug merely watched, hands clutched together and back straight. He wondered vaguely if Black Hat could read where his name was so boldly written at the bottom of the letter, if the description he had provided reminded him of Jack Phillips, or if he had expected to see this very document the entire time. It should be impossible for Black Hat to have lived over two hundred years, right? Or maybe not, given he was inhuman. There were certainly a few cases where an inhuman had gotten past one hundred fifty.

Seconds pass, though it feels more like hours, before one of the scientists finally moves, his brow visibly furrowing with what could only be shock and confusion, and soon, all of the other faces began to twist into similar looks, with Black Hat’s remaining unchanged. Any second now, and the business man would be subject to questions, interrogation, possible even arrest, if the claims were true. Any second now, and Flug’s hypothesis would be proven or disproven entirely, and he wasn’t even sure which one he would want more. Finally, the head scientist moves to face him, his face full of confusion, and even suspicion.

“...Doctor Flug...The end of the page is entirely blank.”

His heart seemed to skip a beat, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. Blank? What did he mean, 'blank?' The letter had very clearly and very obviously stated ' _Black Hat_ ' in broad, swooping cursive. It wasn't as if the letter could rewrite itself, or-

His mind replayed the way Black Hat had magically lit his cigar, and how he hadn't even snapped his fingers when lighting his own. God _dammit_ , he knew he shouldn't have allow Black Hat to accompany them. If he could produce fire with his gloves on, and only made a show of it when he was certain a large number of people could see or notice him, there was no telling what kinds of magic he could do without anyone knowing. Especially if Black Hat was the very same person spoken of in the letter.

Some part of him wanted to laugh and cry and give the man applause at being able to so effortlessly get close to the document. The rest of him wanted to flip the table right into Black Hat's face for making a complete and utter fool out of him in front of his colleagues.

He decided to go for neither. Since assault was illegal. Of course.

"Yes, well, I was very confused by it as well. The letter had been contained within a rather well-sealed wooden box - about the size of a cigar container, I'm sure you're familiar - but for whatever reason, there appears to be some kind of water damage on only one portion of the paper. As if it were deliberate. I can only imagine that whoever it was that the letter named had it censored for reasons of their own."

Black Hat’s face doesn’t move, his visible eye narrowing softly. “..That is a probable theory. It was the times of the Revolution. Wouldn’t be surprised if this gentleman wanted his name off the records in case this Jack fellow got himself captured or killed.”

"He likely would have been a murderer," Roger pipes up. "The letter, if the date holds, coincides with a serial killing of priests in the area, which fits with how Jack's priest never returns to his church. Probably wouldn't want witnesses."

"Yes, but he left the man alive long enough to write this letter, and for it to be passed down from generation to generation." Flug crosses his arms. "If the gentleman wanted his name off the letter, and he had access to it, why not just destroy the document? Why censor his name and leave it to be discovered later? Unless he wanted the letter to be discovered, but didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of an answer."

Helen’s arms fold, her hair hissing softly, as if disgruntled. “That could be a theory. This letter is also proof that the Boston Tea Party wasn’t a riot induced by angry locals, it was an inside job, planned two months before it occurred, clearly with the intent to spark revolution. And it obviously worked.”

Flug sighs and pinches his nose. "Which entirely rewrites one of the most influential moments in American history. It's one thing to push back the age of the planet, but physical history passed down an entire culture.... What's the likelihood anyone will believe it, Roger?"

“With the war going on and the entire world being torn apart like it is....I’d say it’s quite unlikely. I doubt the people would want to know that the birth of the American Revolution was staged by some, some...radical barbarian that slaughtered priests.” He sighs, lifting a hand to scratch his nose, brow furrowed softly, his expression a tad depressed. “I don’t even think the universities would be willing to accept this.”

"Well, at least it wasn't a month's long project like some of the others." Flug strokes his chin. "Guess it'll have to be put on stand-by until we can find supporting evidence. And wait for the war to die down."

Helen raises a brow at him. "You're not even going to put up a fight?"

He blinks once. "Not when it comes to the American ego, no."

Black Hat nods lightly, his face still softly confused, his eye flicking up to face the doctor. “A wise decision, Dr. Flug. Speaking ill of anything regarding such troubling concepts tends to be more troubling than it’s worth. Believe me, I would know.”

One of the others scoffs, shaking his head and giving Black Hat an irate stare. "I honestly doubt *he* would understand." He crosses his arms, turning his glare on Flug. "If I could choose between an American's ego and a German's, I'd choose the American's any day."

Flug met his glare with a deadpan expression, but said nothing.

"Go write your next book somewhere else, and keep us out of it. Your 'proof-'" He knocked the letter across the table toward Flug, who gently caught the parchment before it could fall. "-that world history is incorrect can't even stand on its own two legs. You're messing with bunk science and you know it."

"Jim-"

"No, people could get hurt and he knows this." He jabbed a finger at him. "You put this out into the world, that the Revolutionary War was started by some _fiend_ , and you're going to unleash chaos on the country. And the timing of this? Are you kidding me? Roger's right. There's a fucking _war_ going on out there, started by _your_ people-"

"I'm not-" Flug started.

A sudden round of shouting started up and Flug standed perhaps two seconds of it before flying into autopilot and repackaging the letter and his suitcase. If they wanted to yell, so be it. He would have no part in it. It wasn't as if the findings were more important than anything else right now, or that he had long since denounced every German ounce of him save his name, or that his entire family and only remaining relative were _Jewish_. Definitely not.

Everything seemed to move so fast. Helen’s whole body visibly shook with rage as her hair sprang up, their fangs extended and hissing in warning, all the while her shrill, shrieking voice rose up in the room, adding fuel to the fire. Roger’s eyes were wide in shock, in absolute horror as he began to wave his arms, using his body to get in between the angry gorgon and the other scientists, all of them yelling, screaming, looking close to throwing punches, the table teetering as if it was about to be knocked over. Flug’s fingers were shaking, trembling like dead leaves, and he could feel tears stinging his eyes, could feel a lump beginning to well up in his throat and _he just wanted to gET OUT OF HERE-_

A gloved hand softly hooked around his shoulders, began to guide him toward the door. A voice whispered close to his ear. “Come, Doctor. It’s probably best if you not stay here any longer.”

Yes, yes, that sounded just about excellent right now. The clicking of the door opening and closing met his ears above the din of the room, and then he was met with sweet, sweet silence. Aside from his breathing. Had he started hyperventilating? That's not good. Breathing was something he wanted to keep doing, wasn't it? Yeah, he was fairly certain breathing was better than hyperventilating.

“Doctor, deep breaths. Deep breaths. Do you hear me?”

He nodded, trying to force his breath in, holding for barely a moment before it all gusted out, lungs spasming. God, breathing was supposed to be _easy_! Why wasn't it easy? Why couldn't he _breathe-!?_

“ _ **DOCTOR**_.”

Within an instant, his head was being gently yet firmly held within the grasp of those leather gloves, and Black Hat’s one eye was staring deeply into his, piercingly, the surface beginning to change into a horribly haunting black hue, the pupil shining as red as blood, and his voice boomed in his ears like the blast of a thunderclap. Somehow, staring into this eye seemed to bring everting to a crashing halt, the lump in his throat, his shakes, his rampant thoughts, all of it slowing, fading away, as if it were never there.

For a moment, he merely stood there, heart hammering against his ribcage and lungs frozen. Then, slowly, the breath still in him eased out through his mouth, returning somewhat easier and calmer. But he still couldn't look away from that eye, couldn't move his body while deadlocked with someone so blatantly - what? Terrifying? Powerful? That eye seemed to pierce through his very soul for what felt like forever, before the lid containing it’s wrath finally blinked, and within an instant, that look was gone, replaced with the same startling white eye he had seen so many times before, the slitted pupil flitting over his face for a moment or two before those gloves hands released his face. Black Hat pulled away and whipped out another cigar from his case, clenching it between his fangs but not lighting it, his grin entirely gone, his face a blank slate, one that carried a stoic, emotionless state, offering no insight into what the man was thinking.

With a wave of the hand, a small slip of paper was produced in Black Hat’s fingers, and he held it out to the man, wordlessly.

Flug immediately dropped his gaze, eyeing his hand and thoughtlessly taking the card. "Th-thank - thank you, M-Mister Black Hat, s-sir."

“...You’re a good man, Doctor Flug. And the idea of a good man such as you being wasted on those _pigs_ makes me sick.” He turns away, seeming to pause for only a moment before turning to glance at him ever so slightly. “So sorry that the paper wasn’t what you hoped, but I’m afraid being known as a priest killing monster would be bad for business.”

The tiniest hint of a smirk, and Black Hat starts walking.

For a moment, he floundered, jaw flapping as the man sauntered toward the exit, cane tapping loudly against he immaculate flooring. He - he _knew_! Black Hat - the entire time - _knew_! And Flug had been right. Black Hat had somehow known he'd found the letter, had cornered him at the airport to get close to it, and had manipulated its contents in order to avoid notice! He - he....

Why?

Flug blinked and looked down at the card in his hand. A business card. A phone number. A _lead_.

His hand clutched the card tightly, unwilling to lose it. "That clever bastard."


	3. The Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait!! Life ended up getting in the way far too much for our liking!

Flug told no one. He told no one what the letter had originally said. He told no one about Black Hat magically manipulating the letter to remove his name. He told no one about the business card Black Hat had given him.

Well. Except Oma.

And _telling_ might be a bit of an understatement.

"And he just - the way he said it was just so - the smirk on his face-!" His hands flung as he spoke, pacing back and forth in the kitchen while his grandmother cooked a stew. "He _knew_! The entire time, he knew that I knew he was named in the document. And he had no qualms about changing history. _Literally_ changing history! All for his business empire of poisoning people with toxic fumes."

Oma couldn’t help but chuckle to herself, shaking her head as she lifts up the lid of the pot to stir the stew. “To be fair, the history hasn’t changed at all, only your perception of it. It sounds like you’re overreacting, my little Flugzeug.”

"No, he - I'm not - it's just-" He huffs, stopping next to the counter to better align the two bowls already set out for them. "I've never even heard of that kind of magic being used before. And no one even noticed! The letter was in my bag the entire time. He couldn't have even known where exactly it had _been_."

“Perhaps it was an illusion? You did say you smoked one of his cigars.” She finally reaches out to turn off the stove, slipping the lid off and dipping in a ladle, carefully scooping the stew into the bowls.

"Helen didn't," he mutters. "She would have said something." He carefully takes the bowls and places them on the table, each centered neatly on round placemats already supplied with glasses of water and silverware. "Black Hat doesn't seem like the kind of person to use an illusion either. It wouldn't be much help in the long run if it's being held by historians."

“Hmm...I see. So, when will you invite this man over for dinner?” She gives him a wide, mischievous grin.

His knee almost slammed into a corner of the table. "Wh-what!? Oma, I can't just *invite* him over. I barely know him, and he's probably very busy with his business."

“Heheheh. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s just that this is the first time I’ve ever seen you so stumped; I figured you’d have hearts in your eyes for the first person that’s ever managed to outsmart you. We both know how unlikely that is, eh?” She wipes her hands off with a dish rag before sitting down across from Flug, smirking.

"Hrm." He awkwardly fidgets before dipping his spoon into his soup. "It's definitely the first time happening like this."

“He doesn’t seem like he’s all that bad, you know. I mean, he got you away from those...those *schweinhunds* didn’t he?”

"I - I suppose he did. Weird method of calming me down, though, but I guess it worked."

“Well, anyone who does that for my Flugzeug is welcome in my household, you hear?”

"Er, of - of course, Oma." He rubbed the back of his neck.

She chuckles softly before beginning to eat. There was the sound of a distant knocking, and she lifts her head, brow raised. “Huh...Wasn’t expecting guests..”

He blinks once and raises a hand as she moves to stand. "I'll get it."

She sighs and sits back down, rolling her eyes. “My back isn’t that bad, Flug.”

"Let's just hope it's the girl scouts again." He stands and walks across the room andinto the main hall of the house, frowning as the knocking came again. "Coming!" A heavy knock, and high up. Most likely not a girl scout.

When the door swings open, a man in a suit and tie was standing there with a briefcase, his hair combed back, his hand extended in greeting. “Good afternoon, Doctor Flug. I hope I’m not intruding on anything important. May I come in?”

"Um." Flug glances at his hand, then up at his face, and shifts in the way of the door. "Do I know you?"

The man blinks, before he smiles politely, lowering his hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I forgot to introduce myself!” He pulls out his wallet and flashes a shiny badge, golden in texture. “I’m part of a governmental agency looking into magical conspiracy, crime, and threats to the world. I was told by a anonymous tip that you had encountered the man they call Black Hat.”

He stares for a moment, then frowns and shifts again. "I don't understand. Black Hat is a tobacco salesmen. What does the government want to do with him?" He tilts his head. "And, anonymous tip, did you say? Might want to be careful with that. Some of my colleagues don't exactly have the highest opinions of me. I wouldn't be surprised if they called something in just to create some kind of hassle for me and my associates."

"Flug?" Oma's voice drifts in from the kitchen. "Who is it?"

"It's a, um." He glances over his shoulder, then back to the official, and then back inside the house. "It's a, er, *regierungsbeamter.* Something about work. I'll be right back." He offers a strained smile to the man, almost seeming to hide a little bit behind the door. "Sorry. That was my O- my grandmother. We were having dinner."

The man doesn’t even seem to shift or blink at any of Flug’s words, and instead, his smile only seems to grow. “Oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but this will only take just a few moments of your time. It’s a matter of importance you see.”

"Right. Magical crimes and threats." He shifts, then steps out from behind the door and onto the porch, shutting the door behind him. "We can talk out here."

The man’s smile finally drops, pausing to look over both of his shoulders before sighing, finally putting away the badge. “Very well...I’m sure by now you’ve realized that the man called Black Hat isn’t any ordinary man. He’s an inhuman for one, one that doesn’t seem to have any other kin that resembles him in any sort of way. Further more, he seems to have magic, and a rather abundant amount of it...What exactly did he do when you met him?”

"He offered me a cigar and asked to accompany me to the museum I was presenting my next document at. He's apparently a fan of my work." Flug links his hands together in front of him. "I told him he could come."

The man goes silent for a second, eyes narrowing a bit in thought. “...And what happened next?”

"We went to the museum and I showed my piece. The historians weren't entirely impressed, and they made that quite well known to my colleagues and I."

“I see...Anything else?”

Flug considers telling him of the letter for but moment before shaking his head. He had taken the letter with him in his hurry to leave; no one else had seen it yet, so it would be impossible for anyone outside the room to know about its contents. And something told him that outing Black Hat without having a full grasp on who he was talking to or why they wanted to know about a tobacco CEO would be something of a horrible misstep. "I'm afraid I had a rather severe panic attack as a result of what the historians had said. My memory of the event is somewhat... jumbled."

The man nods almost solemnly, sighing for a moment. “Yes, I heard...bits and pieces, shall we say. So sorry to hear such a thing. Is there anything at all about Black Hat that you can recall?”

"He was the one who got me out of the reading room, and he also helped calm me down a little before having to take off. I didn't notice anything horribly out of the norms." For Black Hat, he left unsaid.

“..I see.” The man looks down for a moment before he moves to set the briefcase down on a nearby porch tableand open it up. “This anonymous person wanted me to give you this, Dr. Flug. I believe you may find it to be of interest.” He holds out a file that’s filled with a decent amount of papers.

Flug frowns, taking his glasses from his breast pocket and accepting the file. He runs a thumb through the stack. "Someone gave this to you to give to me? The same someone who knew I had met Black Hat today?" He peers up over his glasses at the agent. "I'm guessing this is the same person you heard enough 'bits and pieces' from to tell that I had a panic attack from."

The man stares for only a moment before he just smiles right back, keeping perfect eye contact. “The informant was convinced you’d enjoy this case file, Dr. Flug.”

"I'm certain," he mutters, turning back to the file in question and opening it to the first page. His eyes widen. "A plane ticket. They got me a plane ticket." He shifts the papers. "And they've found a place for me to stay." He flips a few more, scanning through the pages. "Valdivia, Chile. What's in Valdivia? What do - *who* gave you this?"

“So sorry, Dr. Flug, but I’m afraid that’s classified.” He shuts the briefcase. “Good evening, and I hope you get plenty of rest. You’ll need it.” He turns and starts to walk away.

"Wh-what? Wait, I can't just - I can't just go to Chile and find buried treasure!" Flug follows him down the steps. "I - I have to make sure it's alright with the government, and the local people, and - and I have to do research! This is - the flight is booked for *tomorrow.* You can't expect me to just drop everything and leave."

“It’s not me that’s expecting anything, Doctor Flug. I’m just the messenger.”

He sputters and watches him walk away, then exhales and trudges back inside. As he returns to the kitchen, he slides the case file onto the counter and plops back into his seat.

Oma, who was still eating her soup, cocks her brow at the site of the file. “What’s that? Are the government folk sending you on another wild goose chase again?”

"And they paid for my flight this time." He swirled his spoon around in his soup. "It's scheduled for tomorrow."

She looks down for a moment before simply sighing. “If you need to go, then go. I wouldn’t be a good Oma if I wanted you to lose your job.”

He presses his lips together. "Something about this doesn't feel right, Oma. They asked me all these questions about Black Hat. They said someone sent in an anonymous tip about me meeting him, but they had enough information detailing my panic attack that it seemed like they knew what was said in the room. And then they pull this file out with zero lead in?" He shakes his head. "It doesn't quite make sense."

She pauses, blinking, her brow furrowing softly. “Hmm...That does seem rather odd...What are you going to do?”

"I... don't know." He swallows a mouthful of soup. "If they're so interested in this artifact, then it's probably powerful. Well, in whatever lore or stories they've heard at least. And if someone could amass that much information-" He gestures to the three inch folder. "-then, more than likely, other people are catching onto it."

“I see...Perhaps they want you to get ahold of it before anyone else can? It could be a sign of trust.”

"Maybe." In truth, Flug hadn't thought of that. He had long since lost any and all trust for enforcement type governmental bureaucrats. Evidently, Oma hadn't. "I'll have to see what they've found."

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Open it. I want to hear what my little Flugzeug is getting himself into.”

He smiles softly and grabs the folder, returning to the table and flipping through the pages as he continues to finish his meal.

‘The Incantation of Burning Stone, a Class 4 Artifact that is said to be able to summon and manipulate vast quantities of magma from the Earth’s core, and has been the cause of thousands of volcanic eruptions over the past millions of years. It was once used by a radical group of cultists known as The Ember to bury an entire section of the South American continent under the sea, before they were infiltrated and taken down by an unknown force, and the artifact was stored away within the depths of an ancient tomb.’

Huh. Some kind of magical artifact capable of manipulating magma. Definitely sounds like something the government would be worried about. Though, it sounds as if whoever wrote this had been studying the relic for a while now. Millions of years.... But connected to cultists who were defeated by an "unknown force" which decided to lock it away in a tomb instead of use its powers for other means. Intriguing. Flug sighs softly as he sets his chin in his hand, lips pursing in thought, mind buzzing with indecision, with uncertainty. This thing definitely seemed interesting, but it also seemed to be a pretty big target for anyone that wanted to cause a lot of destruction with little effort. Which also meant this tomb could potentially be heavily guarded.

He'd have to bring his pistol just in case.

He flips through a few more pages, finding a variety of information on customs and culture among the people who live in the vicinity of the tomb. Also, a map. Useful. Unusual, and likely an indication that whoever put this file together had physically been there, but still useful. There were a few notes on the cultists, who seemingly were interested in elemental magics somewhat reminiscent of Wiccan rituals, and a few choice warnings about possible dangers lurking around the site.

Flug, admittedly, doesn't have much to fend off magical creatures. Call him crazy, but he had always been more interested in studying cryptozoology instead of outright killing it. But he did have an iron knife with a silver lining - custom made, just in case he came across anything fey or demonic in nature. It was a one in a thousand chance of making contact with one, but, either way, it was a knife. If his pistol wasn't enough, he could use his knife.

“So? Don’t keep me in suspense, I might just have a heart attack.” Oma was staring at him, a brow raised, clearly expecting an explanation as to where Flug was going.

"Valdivia, Chile," he says, though he keeps his chin propped on his hand and continues to flip through a few more pages. "There's a magical artifact that can manipulate magma in a tomb near there. It's old, but I'm fairly certain there's been some recent action around it. People fighting over it, that is. Could be risky."

She hums, looking a touch uncertain herself for a moment. “Hmm...That does sound a bit dodgy...What do you think you should do?”

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it with a snap. What *should* he do? He rubbed his neck and slowly exhaled. "There's enough information in here for me to find a safe route to the tomb without much interference. I wouldn't trust anyone to use the artifact wisely, in a way that wouldn't hurt people." He swallows, shaking his head a little. "There's just *too much* information. This is - this could very easily be a year's worth of study, if not more. There are so many intimate details. Whoever sent this - if they didn't make contact with the artifact, they got *close.* It doesn't seem right."

“It could be a private collector that’s trying to hire you. God knows how many of them have their filthy hands in the pockets of the government.”

"Could be. Could be." He taps his chin. "I'll have to make sure the government signs some kind of agreement when I return with the artifact. Or... hm." He turns through pages a little more quickly. "I really shouldn't take anything from another country. That's not a very good thing to do. Oh." He lifts a thin document near the end of the file. "Oh, wow. Whoever this is means business."

"And what does that mean?"

He blinks twice, skimming the document and flipping through its five pages. "Official seal of the Chilean government. Signatures from the President and other members of the government saying archaeologists can... do what needs to be done to find the artifact. Ownership would be transferred to whoever finds it."

“...Seems like this fellow really wants you to find this stone.” Oma rubs her chin, her gaze looking thoughtful.

"He also sounds fairly powerful."

“Not someone you would want to piss off by refusing...”

"Exactly." He puts the paper down, steepling his hands. "Okay. I'm going, but I'll have to be careful."

Oma’s lips quirk up in a smirk. “I would expect nothing less.”

He grins back. "Nothing like looking for antiques in a foreign country with instructions from a questionable source and an ambush awaiting you."

“Such is the life of an adventurer, eh?”

Flug chuckles quietly, pushing back his chair and standing again. "Guess I should get my things together, then. Oh, um." He pauses, just about to grab the folder. "Breakfast tomorrow. We were going to, um...."

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’ve made my own breakfast by myself before, I can do it again.” She waves a hand in casual dismissal. “You have a lava rock to find.”

He visibly relaxes and pulls the folder into his arms. "Anyone ever tell you that you're the best?"

“All the time.” She smirks at him before letting out a soft yet hearty chuckle.

He rounds the table and pulls her into a one armed hug, kissing the top of her head. "Well, good. Not gonna stop anytime soon."

She gives him a playful slap on the shoulder, laughing harder. “Oh, stop your stupid flattery and go pack your bags. Don’t make me kick your ass later because you missed the plane.”

"Yes, Oma!" He chuckles and hurries off, clattering up the steps as he finally allows his excitement to grow. He throws open the door to his room with such force it almost causes the many, many, *many* papers lining the walls to jostle from their pinned places, many of them shaking or fluttering madly before finally going still. Books, papers, pencils, and all sorts of equipment and tools are cluttered about the floor, and were it not for the fact that his bed was a good few feet off the ground, it would’ve blended right in with the mess. He tiptoes his way to his desk, setting the folder down next to several stacks of papers from his previous works. He taps the new papers, then reaches for his suitcase and begins packing seemingly arbitrary tools from the ground.

He pauses when he spots the business card, still sitting atop the case that contained the document of Jack Phillips, the man who had supposedly, no, *definitely* met Black Hat on a cold autumn evening in the docks of Boston. The card was flipped over, showing off the phone number, the address of some type of building, and, as always, the symbol of a black and red top hat. He frowns for a moment, then tosses a bundle of rope into the case and reaches for the card. "Sly bastard. What's your game?" He turns the card, glancing at the company's title for only a moment before returning to he phone number and address. If only he had more time to talk to him....

Both the number and the address looked relatively normal, innocuous even, despite not bearing any type of familiarity to Flug in the least. He remembers seeing glimpses of the man’s many tobacco factories in the distance whenever he was traveling to different countries, seeming to stake claim to places that even the most ambitious of salespeople wouldn’t even begin to touch. Massive buildings, of metal and steel, mounted with towers and chimneys that churned out smoke as if they housed the lungs of a firedrake, but he could never get close enough to see the interior, to see the workers, to see much of anything. And the idea of Black Hat giving him an address to a factory seemed out of the question; the card looked too formal, too clean, too respectable. If this address lead anywhere, it possibly lead to where the man himself *lived*. And if Black Hat had invited him to his *home...* maybe that was what the agent had been worried about. Maybe the government was worried about Black Hat using him, or conning him into some kind of dirty work, or - he hated to think of it about anyone - but maybe they were worried Black Hat... getting rid of him. There wasn't any clear reason for the man to do such a thing, but there also hadn't been a reason for him to watch his every reveal. Why *was* Black Hat interested in his work? Aside from trying to keep his image intact with all the-

His eyes snapped wide open. "Wait. If Black Hat was the being in Phillips' letter, then...."

His eyes slowly turn to the many papers lining the walls, papers of past investigations, of research and studies, of tests and hypotheses all tossed to the wayside. Papers of artifacts, scattered all over the world like puzzle pieces, artifacts that were unexplainably linked to his theories, his theories of the world, of magic, of everything. His eyes narrow, and a sneaking suspicion builds in his chest. The shadowy being with a head longer than a normal humans, or ears protruding perpendicularly from the head, or cracked, piercing, black and red eyes.... That had been the constant. Well, either that or some kind of Lovecraftian being. Maybe having that panic attack actually held a benefit for once. He slowly got up, beginning to feel the urge to pace, his fingers snapping together in an insistent rhythm, working to keep his rapid thoughts intact, focused, sensible. Everything was coming far too fast, far too quickly, and it was starting to make his heart beat faster, his body beginning to jitter with frantic energy. Ok, ok...So, Black Hat definitely was some type of inhuman, no doubt about it. Though, that begged the question, was he born inhuman? Or did he succeed in some form of ghastly transmutation?

Maybe he had stumbled upon one of these artifacts, and it greatly changed his being? But - but none of the artifacts held enough power to give him some of the abilities he clearly had. Manipulating something as small as cramped handwriting without seeing it or knowing where precisely it was, while managing to maintain the rest of the writing... no. That would have been adverse reactions to multiple artifacts, assuming *all* the magic had been transferred, which simply neglected the majority of scientific studies both magical and non-magical. Which means the more likely scenario is that Black Hat was simply *born* inhuman, which beckons the question of *how old* he is, the answer to which would either prove or disprove the possibility of Black Hat being this mystery, age defying creature!

A rapid chill fluttered down his spine, a split second of sheer emotion that left him feeling as if every molecule of hair on his body was standing on end, a sheen of sweat momentarily felt dotting his brow, and he couldn’t help but bite his lip, not knowing wether to start smiling until his cheeks ripped or pulling out his hair until he was bald. This was both so much more deadly than a bunch of ancient magical creations, and yet so much more *exciting*. Flug took a deep breath, tapping his thumbs together at a much slower tempo. He had a name. He had a face. He had the beginnings of a conspiracy that he could possibly fix into a working theory. He just needed Black Hat to admit to it. And if he was attracting Black Hat's attention just by finding these artifacts, if Black Hat was worried enough to pay attention to *every finding he made,* to the point of asking for a private meeting....

Maybe the best way to draw him out even further is to ignore him and seek out an even bigger artifact.

His eyes flick back to the file, then to his bags, and he feels his lips curl upwards softly. “Well...Thank you, Mr. Anonymous.”

•••••

The airport Flug landed in was fairly modest and by far one of the least active ports he had been in. The warm air was welcoming after the chill flight, but he kept his coat on as he searched for the front entrance of the building. Valdivia, Chile. He had never been to this particular city, but he had been to a few others in the country. Years ago. Hopefully what little he remembered of Spanish was still bouncing around somewhere in his skull. The lobby, from what he could see, was surprisingly empty, or at least as empty as an airport lobby could be, with only a few dozen clients bustling about in their business suits and briefcases and travel bags, most of them inhumans ranging in sizes from goblin to gargoyle. The air was remarkably hot, despite all the rattling effort of the fans whirring above his head on the ceiling, humid, and many bottles of water and water skins were being sold and distributed by the many peddlers surrounding the room.

With a hefty amount of experience, Flug manages to bypass the peddlers and heads toward the front of the airport. A few inhumans glance his way as he walks by, but he barely notices, too busy wondering if he should ask an attendant for directions to the nearest government facility or if he should set his things down first. As he neared the entrance to the airport is when things began to get a little sticky, where the crowds became thicker, and as a result, the beasts became larger, heavier, more cumbersome to walk with as well as walk around. It was hard to keep a steady pace when an ogre’s footsteps were large enough to make the ground shake. Beaks, fangs, snouts, whiskers, faces of all kinds were passing by Flug in a blur, and the pushing and shoving that came about the current of bustling people was sometimes hard enough to bruise. He moved his suitcase up to his chest and tried in vain to ignore the suddenly full avenue of people. The cacophony of noise grew to a blaring volume, an argument between a son and his mother becoming public knowledge to everyone walking by, and his fingers tapped in some unknown rhythm as if to counteract the din. Another elbow hit his side and he mumbled another apology to someone whose face he couldn't see and tried to wade closer to the edge of the crowd.

But it seemed that luck, or whoever distributed it to people, just wasn’t on his side, for all he heard was a startled scream before a sudden weight fell on top of him, sending both him and it crashing to the floor. The crowd instinctively parted with some gasps and irritated swearing, but thankfully there wasn’t any trampling.

It was something of a miracle that his suitcase didn't spring open and upend his belongs. It was much less of a miracle for the corner of his suitcase to jab unwelcomingly into his gut. A pained wheeze escaped him as the weight seemed to hesitate on getting off of him.

It was only when that the weight made a noise did he realize the weight was actually a *person*.

“Ugh...”

Two eyes met his own as the person raised her head, one was a completely normal human eye, a piercing blue, but yet the other was something else entirely. Yellow, large, it’s pupil a thin, almost draconic slit, glittering with a cold intelligence that made it look as if their owner was deciphering all the ways to kill him within the very few seconds they stared at each other. Then those eyes widened, and the person scrambled to get off of him, which was easier said than done in a crowd so thick. “Ahh, Jeez! I am so sorry!”

He winced as their feet stepped on him by accident a few times, but took the opportunity to push himself upright and catch his breath. "It's - it's fine. Happens all the time." He managed to get to his feet, straightening his jacket.

The person, a human woman from the looks of things, not much older than himself, flashed a sheepish smile, her teeth seeming to come to shark-like points, a hand rubbing her shoulder. “Again, Sorry. I couldn’t see where I was going, the ground was all shaky, and then I got tripped up.” Her grin sours into an irritated frown as she glances back into the crowd. “Because apparently *some people* don’t know to stick their tails in their pants!”

Flug laughs nervously, tapping his suitcase again and eyeing the people around them. "It's - it's alright, really. It's wrong to ask people to - to hold back something so immutable about themselves."

“Tch, I guess so.” She rolls her eyes, grumbling slightly under her breath. “It’s not like I do it all the time anyway.” She turns back to glance at Flug, staring at him before her hand lifts to her chin. “Waaaaait a second...” She leans in close, eyeing him up and down with her yellow eye, her face growing more and more pinched before it suddenly snaps into a smile with the force of a rubber band that had just been pulled. “WAIT! OOHHH, I KNOW YOU! YOU’RE THAT BIG EXPLORER GUY! THE ONE THAT HUNTS COOL MAGIC THINGS!”

"Uhhhh...." He glances at the crowd around them, spotting a few people who had turned at the shout. "Maaaaaybe?" He turns back to the woman. "Well, I, uh, I gotta get going, gotta do some things, and I'm on a bit of a tight schedule, so it's been nice meeting you, but I really have to get going, so maybe see you later?"

“Oh, oh, of course. Sorry. Nice to meet you, Mr. Slys!” Just as quickly as she appeared, she walked back into the crowd, and it was only a few short seconds before she was completely gone out of sight.

"I, uh, it's... Doctor. I'm a..." He sighs. "Doctor. Never mind." He trills his fingers and turns, again trying to find the nearest exit.

It was only then that he saw a completely different figure, just in the edge of the crowd,a man wearing what looked to be a business suit, approaching him. “Excuse me. I couldn’t help but...hear that lady’s conversation with you. Are you Flug Slys? I’ve been told to look for someone of that name arriving here around this time.”

"I, er, yes, that's - that's me. Who are you?" He tries to grin, but it doesn't feel genuine. Meeting fans wasn't as uncommon as some people made it out to be, but meeting two in the span of five seconds was something to make a record out of.

“I am someone who was sent by the local government around here to show you around the city, as well as make sure that you don’t find yourself lost.”

"Oh, um." He shifts, not having expected anyone to come meet him. "I was actually on my way to find someone to help me with that. How strange."

“Indeed. Are there any questions you have currently before I escort you around?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.” The man briefly opens his coat to pull out a stack of files, handing it over to him.

“Documents to show how I was hired for this assignment. It seems whoever paid for you to be here was quite thorough; I’ve personally never seen someone so obsessed with making sure everything was covered.”

"Huh." He flips through a few of the pages. "Neither have I, Mister... Alabaster. You currently work for the government in politics, but you used to work in customs, and before that in... antique restoration?" He shakes his head. "Wow. They really did think this through."

Alabaster couldn’t help but grin slightly, letting out a bit of a chuckle. “I know, right? It almost makes me think our unknown friend is a bit...paranoid, shall we say.”

"If he's paranoid, then he's both paranoid *and* smart. Dangerous combination." Flug offers a grin in return. "He probably just wants me to find the artifact before him. Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried to hasten my pace."

Alabaster nods, his grin faint, but still there nonetheless. “I suppose you’ve had plenty of those encounters, right? I’m sure your line of work must be quite exciting.” He begins to lead Flug away from the crowd, towards a rather fancy-looking car.

"A little rare, but, yes, I get offers every now and then. Nothing quite like this, though." Flug taps his case twice. "Where are we going?"

“I’m sure you want to drop off your things at your abode first. Then I’ve been instructed to lead you to the dig site when you feel yourself to be properly prepared. It’s rather deep in the wilderness so it’s best if someone who knows the area makes sure you get there safely.”

"The... team?" Flug pauses next to his car. "What team?"

“The archeological team, Doctor Flug. They’ve been working on excavating the entrance to the artifact for years now. It’s just that no one on that team is....how should I put this...as experienced to handle all of the deadly aspects that could happen within.”

He watches Alabaster for a moment, then nods. "Right. Yeah, I usually work alone. It's... easier."

“Understandable, Doctor, completely so. After all, with the war going on, it’s not like you can find many reliable faces these days.” He lets out a soft sigh, looking a touch more downtrodden before his grin resurfaces. “Ah, pardon me, I don’t mean to get this melancholic. Shall I take you to your rental home?”

"That would be nice, yes. Is there enough room in the back for both me and my suitcase? I usually do more research on the artifacts I dig up..."

“Oh, yes, of course. Feel free to chatter about it with me if you need to. I personally find the babble about magic and such to be quite interesting.” He flashes a slightly wider grin before slipping into the driver’s seat.

Flug slips into the back, pulling the seatbelt on over his shoulder. "Magic is pretty interesting, isn't it? Some people say there's no reason to it, but I think differently." He unlatches his suitcase and pulls a few papers out.

The car starts up with a soft rumble, and Alabaster makes a sound that resembles a scoff. “No reason to it? That definitely doesn’t sound right. Magic *is* reason, in my mind. After all,look at all of the rules and regulations that come with using it, so many things to keep in mind, so many dangers to watch out for when casting it. How could anything like that not have reason?”

"Well, that's the intent that comes with using magic, not necessarily the magic itself." He roots around his suitcase and pulls out the map that had been given to him."Magic itself is... theoretically a biologically driven trait. I'm not entirely inclined to believe that either. Too many isolated cases for it to be that simple."

“Hmm...Biologically you say? That definitely sounds plausible, or at least to me. But then again, I’m no scientist! Haha!” He lets out a hearty chuckle.

"Not what I said, Mister Alabaster." He grins up at him as the laughter dies, the light catching on his glasses. "I said *theoretically.* Most people assume it's biological due to the various well-known clans in the European and North American industries. I'm fairly certain that's, for the most part, incorrect and driven by publicity." He turns back to the map. "Like I said, too many isolated cases. Not to mention the artifacts I search for often hold some kind of magical essence. If magic is based in biology, then it would fade over time. Instead, magic stored in objects retains almost all magic put inside it. That's why it's so dangerous when untrained people interact with artifacts such as the ones I'm hunting today."

Alabaster seems to go silent for a moment, as if shocked into silence, before he speaks up again. “I see...Fascinating. What is your theory then?”

"Heh. If only there were enough time to tell." He shakes his head a little. "Let's just say it's connected to my work regarding the age of the planet."

“..The age of the planet?”

"It's a long story." He closes his suitcase and pulls his papers together. "So how did you receive your instructions?"

“I’m not entirely sure. I was just handed a letter and was told that a professional archeologist would be coming to the country and that I needed to escort him to the site.”

"Huh." He blinks at that. "Well, I suppose you *are* a government agent, in a sense of the word."

“I personally think everyone is a bit on edge because of the war. Loose lips and what not.”

"If they were on edge because of the war, they would have put the majority of this-" He waves his papers. "-in some kind of code. Then again, going through government agencies circumvents mailing services."

Alabaster only offers a small shrug, focusing most of his efforts on turning the car at random intervals, crowds of inhumans and people constantly flooding the view of the city’s streets, other cars inching their way along the roads as best they can. “I don’t tend to ask questions, unfortunately. I’d rather keep my job.”

"Probably why I'm not in politics." He looks up again. "The - the archaeological team you mentioned earlier. Do you know much about them?"

“I’m afraid not. I believe they came from somewhere in Britain. Why?”

"There's nothing about them in my notes. I thought..." He frowns. "Why bring so many people from out of the country to do this? People who don't know each other working on the same thing...." He smooths his papers out, fitting them exactly on top of each other. "He wants *me* to uncover the artifact, but he didn't want me to wait for the excavation process to be finished. He knew about all this for years."

Alabaster goes silent for a moment, as if unsure of what to say. “...That is...a bit disturbing.”

"I can only assume whoever's behind this knows how I operate," Flug continues, almost as if not hearing him. "Keeping this all secret so I don't know what to expect and can't double check the facts myself. Huh. I guess nobody's been given any time to double check anything, given the strict schedule."

“Alright, I take it back; that’s very disturbing.” The car finally seems to pull into a driveway, and Alabaster sighs. “Well, here we are, Doctor.”

"I've had more than my fair share of stalkers," Flug admits. He glances up ahead of the car at his temporary home. "Whoa."

The car bumped along the rough, dirt road leading up to a two story house fit to stand on the front page of a resort magazine. Wooden stairs led to a deck equipped with a table, umbrella, and chairs. A door rested at both the bottom and top of the stairs, and an impressive, circular window filled most of the western wall of the building. A few newly planted and freshly pruned flowers sat along the walls, and a few spotted the staircase and deck in pots.

“Heh, I hope it’s to your liking. We were told to give the finest of available houses for the duration of your stay.”

"It's... incredible." He blinked, realizing his jaw was hanging, and leaned back against his seat. "It's definitely more than I've gotten in the past."

“Well, to be frank, I don’t think those places recognized your talents, eh?” Alabaster winks at him, chuckling.

"Heh." Flug could definitely agree with the man that his particular skillset was often overlooked and accommodations were often lacking, especially when taking into account his need for flat spaces to lay out maps, materials, and whatever other items he required for each dig. It had often irked him, and at times had delayed his ability to work, but very seldom had it been done maliciously. "I think our mystery investor definitely knows the trade a bit better than some of my previous clients."

“I certainly agree. Do you need any help moving your things into the house? If not, I shall take my leave until you deem yourself ready to head to the dig site.”

"Oh, um, I - I only have this one suitcase. I think I should be fine. Thank you, though."

“Very well.” He unlocks the doors, getting out to open Flug’s door, tipping his hat softly.

Flug carefully shifts his papers back into his luggage and locks it shut, handing it to Alabaster as he stepped out. "Thank you for the ride. It was, um, very nice of you."

Alabaster takes the luggage and goes to answer, only to cut himself off with a slight wheeze, his arms straining to hold the suitcase in his hands. He still holds the smile, though it was a bit more tense. “Oh, think nothing of it...Dear lord, what’s in this thing, if you don’t mind me asking? It feels like rocks!”

"Oh, uh, just my equipment. Sorry, I, um, I forget that people, um - here, let me-" He grabs the handle, freeing Alabaster's hand from the crushing weight. "Heheh. Sorry. I probably should have warned you about that. It always looks so light to people."

The man lets out a little laugh, lifting his hat off his head to wipe his brow. “It’s no trouble; old spine could use a little strain anyhow. I’d hate to get a punch from you if you could hold *that* so easily!”

"Ah, haha." He shrugs awkwardly and looks aside, admiring the generous amount of trees and bushes around the house. "It's - I'm not that - years climbing rock walls, I guess. Heheh."

“You’re just proving my point, my good man!” Alabaster closed the car door and walls back over to the driver’s seat, pausing to hand him a small card. “The number to reach me is on this card. Simply call it when you want to head to the dig site.”

"I, um, yes, sure. Thank you." He grins and taps the card into his shirt pocket. "Drive safely."

“Of course. Good day.” He tips his hat again, before slipping into his car, the engine rumbling softly as the vehicle backs up and drives off.

Flug watches him leave, waving amicably until the bumper was out of sight. Then he drops his hand and lets a sigh breathe out of him. He turns toward the house.

What a turn of events. How unlikely would it be for someone to have assets in enough places to make Flug's entry into Valdivia so incredibly smooth. The biggest hitch so far had been the crowd at the airport! The identity of his mystery backer was gong to annoy him through the entirety of this trip.

As he approaches the front door, he sees a key hanging from the doorknob by a string. New string, and no signs of moisture despite the humidity of the region. Was it recently placed? Flug glances over his shoulder, feeling a slight chill settle over his back, but returns to the door and enters his temporary abode. He sets his suitcase down almost immediately, and he takes a moment to look around, finding the interior to be quite finely decorated, fresh flowers stored in every vase, with not a single crack or blemish in the walls to be seen. Even the piping was recently cleaned and refurbished, and the water wasn’t dirty at all.

For whatever reason, he didn't like it. Nothing was ever this perfect, especially for him. No one cared this much about a spelunking archaeologist with too many PhDs to do anything with. He wasn't even going to be in the house for long. More than likely, he'd be spending more time in the dig site than anywhere else. It wasn’t enough to make him feel paranoid, but a slight chill was going down his spine nonetheless. It’s only when he saw the phone sitting on the table did he pause, taking a moment to stare at it. Right...He did kind of unexpectedly leave, without public notice. The documents were signed by American officials, so he didn’t illegally leave the country, but he didn’t have time to tell his coworkers. Helen would be so mad...

Well, it would be worse to accidentally cause a cave in and be stuck in a site for weeks and *then* to call rather than simply call while he still can. He picked up the phone and dialed her number.

There was silence for a few moments, before a familiar voice appeared on the other end. “Roger, stop calling me, I’m telling you, I don’t know where he is!”

"Um." He hesitates at the sudden ire spat at him. Were they really that worried about him? He had barely been gone a day yet. "It's, uh, it's Flug, actually."

There was a moment of silence before there was a loud cacophony of hissing, probably from her hair, and her voice is loud and angry. “FLUG?! WHAT HAPPENED?! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

He flinches, almost stumbling at the sudden shouts. "I - I got a proposition that needed i-immediate attention. I'm in - in Valdivia, Chile. I just g-got to the rental."

“God dammit, man! Would it have killed you to leave a note? You didn’t show up to work or anything, and that was not even a day after that *asshole* tried to start a fight with you in the museum! We thought you got jumped or something!”

"O-oh, I, um." The idea hadn't even crossed his mind. The whole confrontation had honestly been forgotten, what with the craziness of the offer. "I hadn't, um, thought of that. Sorry."

“Sorry? Is that all you can say?? Sorry??? Have you no fucking consideration for us?? You just left the fucking country, without telling us!There’s a *war* going on! It’s dangerous to be alone like this! Especially when we didn’t even know where you were!”

"Wh- I - w-w-well, I was approached by the FBI, if you wanted to know. Some a-agent just showed up at Oma's and - and gave me a plane ticket to find a volcano erupting artifact hidden in a temple that raiders are starting to try and crack into."

“...And you just...went along with it?”

"Yeah, I did." He sighs and leans against the wall. "The ticket was already paid for, the research was taken care of. And it wasn't just done by the FBI! The agent was just acting as a go-between, which is... incredibly weird, but I'm - there's something more here."

The hissing instantly dies down, and her voice is low. “...You think it could be a trap?”

"I...." He sighs again, crossing his arms and tapping his fingers. "I don't know. It could be. But this wouldn't be the first time, you know. I've dealt with raiders and corrupt officials before. I'll be fine."

“..Somehow I doubt that. You seem to have an uncanny knack for getting yourself into trouble. Trouble that usually involves you needing to shoot something.”

He can't help but laugh a little at that. "Yeah, it, uh, occupational hazard, I'd say."

“...You really think you’ll be ok? Out there? There could be-“ Her voice pauses, and grows hushed. “....There could be Nazi spies all over the place...”

"Well..." He thinks about it. "It's *possible.* But I'm in South America. That's... a long way from... home, you know? There hasn't been any sightings so far either."

“If you knew you were looking at a spy, then they’re a bad spy, you dumbass. They can hide everywhere.”

"Yeah, yeah." He rubs his face. "You're not wrong."

“..Who even sent you there?”

"That's... what I'm trying to find out. Whoever it is has contacts high in the United States and, I'm assuming, Chile as well."

“..So you don’t know who it is? Christ, Flug, are you trying to get killed?”

"I'm not going to be killed." He walks around the table and looks out the window. "I'll probably only be here a few days anyways."

“Are you sure? You have no idea what could happen down there.”

"Yeah, I'll be entirely fine. I've taken all the precautions. You should know what that entails."

“...Alright. Just...Just don’t be an idiot out there. Your career would really take a nosedive if you died to something stupid.”

"Heheh. Wouldn't want that to happen."

“...I better let Roger know you aren’t dead. Take care, alright?”

"Yeah, thanks. Sorry I made you two worry."

“You owe us when you get back, I hope you know that.” She lets out a sigh. “..See you.”

“See you.”

The line goes dead, indicating that she hang up. Flug sighs and sets the phone handle down, lifting a hand to rub his face.

"Gah. Why can't things be simple?" He flops his hands down, frowning and trying to think of what to do next. Before he could even consider heading to the site early, his stomach rumbled. Right. He hadn't eaten anything since before the plane ride.

Well, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to consider the fridge would be stocked too, would it?


End file.
